


To mend a heart

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Series: To mend a heart [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing, Paparazzi, Pregnancy, famous actor Thranduil, physician love interest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6913477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Requested by @tsukuyomi011: Thranduil, an insanely famous actor, grows worried about his father’s declining health and flies home from a shoot to get him to a doctor’s appointment. He finds his father’s physician to be a beautiful, compassionate person and instantly strikes a connection with her, but the ever-merciless paparazzi aren’t making it easy for them to be together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To mend a heart (part one)

Thranduil Oropher was not accustomed to being kept waiting, and with irritation still simmering on account of the driver who’d been late to pick him up at the airport, he swept into the medical office with his sunglasses hiding his eyes, giving a curt nod to the young woman at the front desk.

“I’m here to meet my father, Mr. Oropher,” he said briskly, sliding the glasses to the top of his head and suppressing a jaded roll of his eyes at the receptionist’s double-take. “His appointment is at eleven.”

The girl collected herself and scrambled to check the schedule on her computer before getting to her feet, a nervous smile trembling on her lips. “He’s in exam room four…I’d be glad to show you if you’ll just follow me.”

Thranduil inclined his head and silently accompanied her down the long hallway behind the desk. In the corner of his eye, he could see her snatching glances at him every so often in a way that would have been comical if he’d been in the mood for a laugh, but the necessity of negotiating a short break from the career opportunity of a lifetime combined with over twenty-four hours in the air to be here had left him with precious little humor to spare.

His expression softened, though, when the receptionist ushered him into the small room and his gaze fell upon his father, seated on the exam table, his eyes – as glacial blue as Thranduil’s own – as sharp as ever and his face lighting with gladness at the sight of his son.

“There’s my boy!” 

The paper covering the table crackled as he moved to get up, but Thranduil’s long strides made short work of the distance from the door. He held out his hand, but Oropher impatiently waved it off and Thranduil found himself enveloped in a warm embrace, his businesslike stance relaxing to return it.

“Sorry I’m late, Dad,” Thranduil smiled, stepping back to give his father the once-over. “You look good.”

“I feel like crap,” Oropher said, with almost cheerful bluntness, and the corner of Thranduil’s mouth quirked upward. 

“Well, you don’t look like it,” Thranduil promised. “Where’s the doctor?”

“She’ll be here,” Oropher assured him. “They’re busy today, but she’s a jewel. Takes her time with patients, doesn’t rush people through like cows to market.”

Thranduil nodded, his eyes sweeping with some distaste over the generic watercolor paintings that decorated the white walls. 

“So tell me about filming, how’s the movie going?” Oropher asked eagerly, and Thranduil folded his tall frame into the chair tucked into the corner of the room, sighing.

“Good, it’s good…a few more weeks of pick-ups and then it’ll go into post-production and I can come home for a while.”

“I saw you in that magazine, what’s it called?” Oropher’s brow creased thoughtfully. “‘Entertainment?’ No, that’s not right.”

“Empire?”

“That’s the one! Legolas sent me a copy.” Oropher stabbed the air triumphantly with his finger before turning a shrewd look on his son. “Have you talked to him lately?”

Thranduil dropped his eyes, fidgeting with the button at the cuff of his shirt. “Not lately…we’re both so busy. You know.”

“Too busy, if you can’t keep in touch with each other,” Oropher said sagely, and though Thranduil’s mouth opened in well-rehearsed defense of himself, he was interrupted by a soft knock at the door, followed by a small creak as it swung open.

* * *

You kept your eyes studiously fixed on Mr. Oropher as you entered the exam room. He had mentioned that his son was planning to attend his appointment, and though within these walls he was only your patient’s family, it remained an unsettling prospect to meet the man in the flesh whose face often stared at you from magazine covers and movie posters.

“Mr. Oropher, I’m so sorry to be running behind,” you greeted him brightly and extended your hand, which he took in both of his, “I’m afraid we’ve got a full schedule today.”

The elderly gentleman patted your hand reassuringly. “Not to worry. I have company this time.” He turned with a proud look to the man who sat in the corner. “This is my son, Thranduil. Thranduil, this is the angel of mercy I’ve been telling you about.”

With a self-effacing chuckle, you turned your attention to the younger Oropher, who rose smoothly from the chair to his full, imposing height. In that curious way human beings have of conducting split-second evaluations, you surveyed everything from the gleaming finish of his shoes to the meticulous, short cut of his silvery blond hair as you reached to grasp the large hand he proffered. His appraising gaze flickered over you, laser-sharp, before settling on your face with a look so intent as to warm your neck with a rising flush.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you smiled crisply, annoyed that his attention had flustered you. “Your father’s told me so much about you.”

“Likewise,” Thranduil answered, with a quick, cordial twitch of his lips.

“Well,” you said, turning again to your patient with a warmer tone. “How are you feeling these days?”

“Eh,” Oropher gave a little shrug, “I can’t walk to the bathroom without having to stop and catch my breath, but that’s nothing new.”

“Mmm,” your nod was sympathetic as you flipped his file open to check the nurse’s notes of his weight and blood pressure. “And how are you finding the assisted living situation? Are you feeling settled?”

“Well, their shepherd’s pie is rubbish, I can tell you that much,” Oropher said matter-of-factly. “Nothing to what Thranduil’s mother used to make. But the people are wonderful, I think it’ll do nicely.”

You found yourself sharing an amused, sidelong glance with Thranduil himself before turning your attention back to the file. “How’s the swelling been?”

“Better. I think those water pills are helping.”

“Good…that’s great news,” you smiled encouragingly and slipped the stethoscope from around your neck, acutely aware of a pair of piercing blue eyes looking on from the corner. “All right, then, let’s have a listen, shall we?”

* * *

Thranduil watched keenly as you began your examination, a smile coming unbidden to his lips to see you banter lightly with his father about politics, the weather, and football between discussing his symptoms and the dosages of his medications.

You were decidedly not what he had expected. In all of Oropher’s glowing reports of your bedside manner, he’d failed to capture the compassion in your eyes, the warmth of your voice, the soft shine of your hair, the way your face lit up with amusement. _  
_

_Beautiful._

The thought flashed into Thranduil’s mind as you leaned against the counter and crossed your arms thoughtfully, weighing Oropher’s options for future treatment, and he immediately scolded himself for paying more attention to the curve of your lips when you smiled than to the therapies you recommended, turning his focus determinedly to his father.

Much sooner than Thranduil would have liked, you were giving Oropher an encouraging squeeze on his shoulder and turning to ask Thranduil if he had any further questions you could answer.

“No…no,” he said pleasantly, “you’ve been very thorough. Thank you.”

Your hand was offered to him again, warm and small in his own, and he held it a little longer this time, smiled more genuinely, before you disappeared again through the door and his father was clapping him on the back.

“What did I tell you, isn’t she lovely?” Oropher shrugged on his coat and made for the door. “I need to make my next appointment, and then let’s go get some lunch. I’m starving!”

Thranduil followed his father back down the hallway toward the appointment desk, but a glimpse into an open office along the way made him slow and retrace his steps. 

You were seated at your desk, your profile silhouetted against the window as you tapped away at a keyboard, your hand wandering distractedly to tuck a wayward lock of hair behind your ear, and a sudden, unfamiliar impulse seized him.

“Dad,” he called to Oropher, “you go ahead and make your appointment, I’ll catch up with you in just a second.”

* * *

With a last keystroke, you leaned back in your chair to reread the updates to Oropher’s file, but your concentration was interrupted by a small clearing of the throat and you looked up to find his son filling the doorframe of your office. A pang of pleasant surprise seized you – along with the fleeting and slightly mortifying thought that his eyes were even bluer in person – but you quickly schooled your features into professional friendliness.

“Mr. Oropher,” you began, but he smirked and shook his head.

“Please, it’s Thranduil…under the circumstances, I’ll spare you the joke about Mr. Oropher being my father.”

You chuckled almost in spite of yourself, and asked, “is there something else I can do for you?”

“No,” he said slowly, running his fingers idly over the smooth wood of the door jamb, “no, I wanted to thank you for the care you’ve given my father. He thinks very highly of you as a doctor and an individual, and I can see why.”

“It’s been my pleasure,” you answered, with a sincere smile. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know him. He’s quite a character.”

It was Thranduil’s turn to laugh, and he nodded in agreement. “Indeed he is.”

The silence was heavy in the room, and you stood up from your chair, if only to break the tension, reaching on an impulse to take one of your business cards from the brass holder on the desk.

“If you’d like, you’re welcome to take my card…please feel free to get in touch if you have any questions or concerns.”

He took the card between his long fingers and examined it carefully, as though stalling for time, and you little knew how his heart pounded with a strange cocktail of nervousness and purpose to which he’d grown quite unaccustomed. Abruptly, he looked up to meet your eyes again, and when he spoke, his voice had lost a fraction of its smooth confidence.

“I’m in town until next week, and Dad always goes to bed early…would you like to have dinner with me sometime?”

You blinked, hesitating. “Is there something you’d like to discuss about your father’s plan of treatment?”

“No,” an amused smile tugged at his lips, “no, it’s purely a social invitation.”

“Why me?” Your curiosity got the better of you, pushing the words recklessly from your lips.

Thranduil’s expression became serious, though his eyes were alive with that restless intensity that had made you blush upon meeting him. “Because you’re the first woman in years whom I’ve wanted to get to know better.”

The temperature in the room seemed suddenly to have risen several degrees, and you silently cursed your clammy palms.

“Are you always so direct?”

“Usually,” he admitted, with a distinctly unapologetic grin.

The air seemed to buzz with nervous expectancy, as if you were ~~~~standing on the edge of the high dive, and with a quiet, deep breath, you took the plunge.

“What did you have in mind?”

“How do you feel about Italian?”

You nodded, a grin spreading slowly across your face to match his own. 

“I’m listening.”

* * *

You’d never dreamed that the simple act of walking into a restaurant could make you feel so naked, but one pair of eyes after another furtively darted to you, dining partners leaned in to whisper to each other while you followed the host to a secluded corner table, and the sensation of Thranduil’s fingertips resting lightly on the small of your back in a chivalrous gesture was strangely comforting.

A sigh escaped your lips as you sank into the chair Thranduil pulled out for you, and he smiled, taking the seat across from you.

“I know, it’s weird,” he said ruefully.

“Little bit,” you admitted. “I’ll never take anonymity for granted again.”

The server appeared with a bottle of wine, and Thranduil, still smiling, nodded his thanks and reached to fill your glass. The movement pulled the collar of his shirt to the side, revealing a patch of skin over his collarbone that immediately caught your attention. The slightly rippled skin, with its telltale, jagged outline, was unmistakable, and you frowned, blurting out your thought.

“How did you end up with a skin graft?”

His hand went instinctively to his collar, his fingers brushing its fabric smooth, and he gave an amused shake of his head. “The sharp eyes of a physician,” he said wryly.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” you said, contrite. “It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s all right,” he put down the bottle and rolled the stem of his own full glass between his fingers. “I was messing around with fireworks when I was a kid, and this wicked cross between a sparkler and a bottle rocket called a Dragon’s Breath went off too soon…caught my shirt on fire.”

“Oh, Thranduil, that’s awful,” you winced, but he shrugged stoically, holding a sip of wine in his mouth before swallowing.

“I was lucky…the burn was fairly small, considering. Anyway, that’s what makeup and Photoshop are for.” He smiled, more warmly, and set his glass aside to lean on his elbows on the table. “Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”

“Well, my dad had an ancient copy of Gray’s Anatomy that I used to pore over when I was a kid, and I don’t want to brag, but I did run the best stuffed animal hospital on our street,” you smiled, and he laughed, deep, throaty, appreciative.

“So you’re compassionate…obviously intelligent…beautiful, if I may say, and you’ve got a sense of humor. What’s your weakness? Do you hate puppies, steal the covers, what?”

Though a flush heated your cheeks, you couldn’t contain a small roll of your eyes as you raised your glass to your lips. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

His teasing grin faltered, and he dipped his head to hold your gaze. “No,” he promised. “I think you’re a remarkable woman. And despite what the tabloids would have you believe, there haven’t been that many girls.”

“Well, then,” a begrudging smile tugged at your lips, and he looked relieved. “If you must know, I love puppies, and as for stealing the covers, there hasn’t been anyone to steal them from in a while.”

He chuckled, nodding sympathetically, and conversation was halted by the appearance of a server bearing steaming plates that carried mouthwateringly savory scents to your nose. Thranduil eagerly took up his fork and began to twirl long strands of pasta before extending it to you.

“Here, try this. It’s the best spaghetti carbonara you’ll ever taste.”

The gesture felt intimate, and you found yourself dropping your eyes from his as you leaned forward to take the bite, but when the salty, smoky, creamy sauce met your tongue, self-consciousness was forgotten, and a small, appreciative moan left your lips. Thranduil looked pleased, giving you a knowing grin when you looked regretfully at your own plate.

“Have more if you like, I don’t mind sharing.”

Silence fell temporarily as the two of you dug into your food, and true to his word, Thranduil reached over the table with a cheeky smirk to steal a large bite of your eggplant parmesan, making you laugh.

“So, your dad mentioned a grandson in California,” you ventured, toying with a bit of cheese on your plate. 

“My son, Legolas,” he nodded. “He’s just started his second year at UCLA.”

“Thranduil and Legolas…I’m guessing you’ve never been able to find keychains or coffee mugs with your names on them.”

He laughed pleasantly. “They’re Celtic in origin. It’s something of a family tradition for sons to have outlandish names.”

“I like it,” you smiled, adding, “I assume you’re divorced?”

“Widowed, actually.”

“Oh…I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Thranduil gave a nod of acknowledgement before laying down his fork with a small smile. “We were practically kids ourselves when Legolas was born. Everybody said we were mad to get married…maybe we were,” he chuckled, “but we were happy.”

You listened with a wistful smile, and he took another swallow of wine and dabbed his lips with a napkin before going on, more soberly. “When she died in a car accident, I was twenty-three, and left alone with a two-year-old and not the slightest idea of how to raise him. You might say Legolas and I sort of grew up together.”

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated.

“It was a difficult road to walk,” he admitted. “After her, I thought there would never be anybody else for me.”

He sat back in his chair, slender fingers sliding elegantly over the stem of his glass, surveying you with a thoughtful, searching look.

“And now?” The words came out more unsteadily than you would have liked, but the way his eyes bored into yours made your stomach flutter and piqued your curiosity.

A soft smile played about his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

* * *

After coffee and a shared dessert you’d been too full to eat but had ordered purely out of a desire to linger at the table, Thranduil guided you to your car with his hand resting once again at the base of your spine, less tentative and more affectionate than before, and his touch made your body feel more alive, as though some strange electricity flowed through his fingertips. 

“Well,” you sighed, turning a bright smile on him. “Thank you so much for dinner…it’s been nice getting to know you.”

He returned your smile, but concern lurked in his eyes. “You sound like you’re never going to see me again.”

“Thranduil, I don’t have any expectations of you. Realistically, you’re one of the most famous men in the world,” you observed, with a small, awkward shrug, “and you’re on your way back to New Zealand next week.”

“Realistically, I’d buy you a ticket to come with me if I thought you’d take it,” he countered lightly.

Your heart twisted with longing, but your practical mind forced an airy huff of laughter through your lips. “You’ve only known me for a few days.”

“I know,” he admitted, locking his gaze with yours as he reached slowly with one hand to brush your hair behind your ear. “But I also know that I can’t stop thinking about you…wanting to hear your voice, see you smile, learn what makes you tick. Haven’t you ever felt that way?”

A nod was the only response you could muster, your mouth suddenly gone dry, and he clasped his hands behind his back and stepped back to look at you with a solemn expression, rolling your name over his tongue in a deliberate way, as though it had a flavor he enjoyed.

“I don’t want to pressure you. If you’re not interested, say the word. But I don’t want you to think for a minute that _I’m_ not.”

The same foolish impulse that had made you say yes to having dinner with him in the first place propelled you forward to reclaim the distance he had put between you, resting your hand on his broad chest and raising yourself on tiptoe to press a tentative kiss to his lips.

Instantly, they became soft, pillowy against yours, applying only enough gentle pressure to accept and return the gesture, and his eyes, so close to yours, were open, watching.

Your heart hammering in your chest with your boldness, you stood flat again, reading his face. A dazzling smile bloomed on his lips, and his hands, graceful in spite of their commanding size, moved to cradle your cheeks, his palms warm and smooth on your skin as he bent to kiss you again.

This kiss was still leisurely, exploratory, almost teasing in its slowness, but there was an undercurrent of controlled hunger in it that nearly made your knees buckle. Your hands slid under his jacket to splay themselves on his back as his fingers weaved into your hair, a shared effort to find more closeness, and it might have been an hour or only seconds later when he tucked your head securely under his chin and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, holding you close to him while you closed your eyes, basking in the warmth of his skin through the fine fabric of his dress shirt and the scent of sandalwood that teased your nose.

“Have breakfast with me,” he murmured.

“I can’t,” you said regretfully. “I’m seeing patients in the morning.”

“Lunch, then.”

“I can do lunch.”

He smiled, looking down at you, stroking a finger across your cheek. “I’ll call you.”

Forcing yourself to open the car door, you reluctantly parted from him, laughing when he folded himself in half to reach you in the driver’s seat for one more kiss.

His grin was infectious. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Sweet dreams, lovely.”

The door closed with a thud, and you looked up to wave at him once more where he stood on the curb to watch you drive away, smiling broadly, luminous with happiness, and completely oblivious to the watchful lens of a camera in a dark car across the street.


	2. To mend a heart (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by @tsukuyomi011: Thranduil, an insanely famous actor, grows worried about his father’s declining health and flies home from a shoot to get him to a doctor’s appointment. He finds his father’s physician to be a beautiful, compassionate person and instantly strikes a connection with her, but the ever-merciless paparazzi aren’t making it easy for them to be together.

Thranduil was awakened in the morning by the rattling of his phone vibrating against the slick, polished surface of the nightstand. His brow creased upon seeing his publicist’s name glowing on the screen, and a quick glance at the clock made him regret closing the blackout drapes over the bedroom’s expansive windows. With a wide yawn, he begrudgingly tapped the screen to accept the call.

“Jo?”

The voice was irritable. “You didn’t answer my text.”

“Good morning to you, too,” he said dryly.

“It’s almost ten-thirty!”

“I know, I know. Sorry.”

“Are you alone, or is this a bad time to talk?”

“What do you mean, am I…talk about what?”

Jo sighed heavily. “Well, I was hoping you’d have had your coffee first, but you probably want to have a look at the Daily Mail.”

Thranduil reached for the tablet that lay on the nightstand and quickly brought up the newspaper’s website, his breath catching upon finding your face looking back at him from among celebrity photos and salacious headlines. With a sinking heart, he tapped the link to the article.

The pictures were as clear as day. The two of you, smiling, laughing, walking to the car, and then…

He muttered a curse under his breath. “How?”

“Someone inside the restaurant tweeted that you were there with a woman. There was already a paparazzo in the neighborhood on a tip about a footballer’s wife, and he decided to set his sights higher.”

Thranduil’s jaw clenched with silent fury as he scrolled through dozens of pictures, moment-by-moment captures of the kiss you’d shared and of his own radiant face watching you leave. 

“The Sun have picked it up with her name and occupation, so I imagine she’ll have had a welcoming committee at her office today,” Jo went on, adding in a bemused tone, “she’s already got her first hate blog on Tumblr.”

Thranduil shoved back the rumpled sheets, casting his eyes around the room for his toiletry bag among the debris of his half-unpacked suitcase and gathering fresh clothes as he headed in the direction of the bathroom. 

“I’ve got to go over there.”

“No, Thranduil,” Jo’s voice was adamant. “After all we’ve done to keep your private life under wraps, you can’t just walk in there and give them the very picture they’re hoping for.”

“What I can’t do, Jo, is leave her to deal with this alone when it’s my fault she’s in this position,” he snapped, equally determined. “See what you can do to call off the vultures and I’ll talk to you later.”

Ignoring her answer, he ended the call and tossed his phone angrily onto the bed. His mind raced as he stepped into the shower, bracing his hands on the cold tile and leaning forward to let the steaming water run over his face. 

_Why now? Why, when everything had been so right?_

* * *

Closing the door to the exam room behind you, you stopped in the hall to let yourself exhale, a moment of respite from the false cheerfulness you’d worn like a costume all morning. A voice pulled you back to the moment, and you turned to find the receptionist standing a few paces behind you, awaiting your attention with an apologetic grimace.

“Mrs. Davies just called to say she’ll be a few minutes late for her 12:45.”

“Right, thanks,” you answered, slipping a form into the file folder in your hand.

“…And there’s…someone waiting for you in your office.”

Your eyes flicked between her face and the office’s closed door, and you took a steadying breath against the conflicting responses of delight and dread that warred within you.

“Thank you.”

You entered the office to find Thranduil pacing the small room like a caged tiger. A pained look crossed his face upon seeing you, and he gestured distractedly toward a white paper bag on your desk.

“I brought you some lunch.”

“That’s good of you, you didn’t have to.”

“It’s the least I can do,” he said bitterly. “We can’t exactly nip out to some romantic little cafe just now, can we?”

“It’s not your fault,” you reminded him.

He sighed, a rueful half-smile twisting his lips. “This is the dark side of what I do for a living, and I never meant for you to be exposed to it, especially not so soon.”

“I know,” you said. “I suppose it just comes with the territory.”

“Is it too much for you?”

The question, the same one you’d been asking yourself since your best friend had called in the middle of your breakfast with the news that you were the gossip sites’ new bread and butter, seemed to take the air out of your lungs.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “This morning, when I walked from the garage to the office, there were strangers with cameras shouting questions about my sex life. How does anyone get used to that?”

“And how could anyone be worth subjecting yourself to it?” The hopelessness in his voice tore at your heart.

“Thranduil, I don’t know what to say…I know you’re leaving in a few days, but I just need time to figure this out,” you pleaded. “I mean, we’ve only just met…maybe it’s less painful to just…”

“Let go?”

“Maybe.”

He nodded stoically. “I understand.”

“Thranduil–”

A knock came at the door, and you broke off with an irritated sigh to open it to a nurse whose eyes darted nervously to Thranduil where he stood beside your desk.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Yang is ready in room two.”

“Thank you, I’ll be right in,” you murmured, turning helplessly to Thranduil after the sound of retreating footsteps had died away. “My next appointment is waiting. I’m sorry.”

He crossed to the door, reaching for your hand and briefly raising it to his lips. “Take whatever time you need. Whether I’m here or back in New Zealand, I’ll listen whenever you’re ready to talk,” he said quietly.

“I’ll call you,” you offered lamely, and with a last, brave attempt at a smile, he was gone.

* * *

The sun was sinking, painting the evening sky in glorious hues of pink and orange, and the first of the city’s lights had begun to twinkle on the skyline of the river’s north bank.

Thranduil leaned on his balcony, pensively overlooking the scene and sipping from the rocks glass in his hand, hollowing his cheeks as the whiskey burned on his tongue before mellowing, warming his throat. With a sigh, he turned to reenter the reception room, surveying the suitcase and carry-on bag, the extra jacket and laptop case, all neatly arranged in anticipation of the next day’s long flight. 

After three days of silence, he had willfully resigned himself to giving up the hope of a proper goodbye, and yet his heart still leapt foolishly when his phone suddenly quivered on the table. He had half a mind to ignore it – probably just his assistant reminding him of flight details he already knew – but with a last swallow of whiskey, he set down the glass and picked up the insistently vibrating phone, his pulse quickening when he read the incoming text.

_I need to see you.  
_

* * *

If you had imagined Thranduil living in a sleek penthouse, some modernist temple of steel, glass, and lucite, you were pleasantly surprised to find yourself in a luxurious but homely warehouse conversion, with exposed brick and beams and comfortable furnishings lending the place an old-fashioned, masculine warmth that immediately put you at ease. 

“Can I get you a drink?” His voice jolted you from your curious survey of the room.

“Oh, no…thank you, I’m fine.” 

Drawn by the dance of lights shimmering on water, you walked to the open French doors to look out at the balcony’s view, and he leaned against the opposite side of the door frame to join you in staring quietly at the sparkling city until you screwed up your courage to break the silence.

“I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“I’m sorry…I know this situation has been stressful–”

“No,” you interrupted him. “No, not like that.”

Thranduil cocked his head curiously, listening.

“For the last three days, I’ve been telling myself we’d be better off going our separate ways, getting on with life…that one date with you would be a lovely memory, a story to tell at cocktail parties,” you smiled wryly, looking up to the velvety sky. “But last night I lay awake, not because I was worried about what to do or annoyed with the paparazzi, but because I couldn’t forget the way I felt when you kissed me, and looked at me like I had the stars in my eyes…the way that, for just one night, it felt like everything could be perfect.”

His slumped shoulders straightened, as though an electric current had gone through him with your words, and you stepped closer to him, reaching with a gentle hand to caress his face, drawing your thumb slowly over his cheekbone and seeing the small heave of his chest in response.

“Last night, I couldn’t sleep, because I realized that I want more of that,” you confessed. “I want to listen to your stories and tell you mine, and kiss you and feel like we’re the only two people on earth. I want _you_ , Thranduil. And I’d be a fool to let those strangers with cameras make me deny it.”

For a split second he was frozen, taking in what you’d told him, barely breathing under your touch, and then a rapturous look broke over his face like sunshine emerging from the clouds and his hands moved to grasp your waist, slid to your back, pulling you close. His eyes looked back and forth intently between yours. 

“You’ll never regret this,” he promised, his low voice all silk and smoke, thrilling in your veins.

Thranduil’s lips met yours once more, lush, slow, worshipful, his exhale nearly a whimper as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his hands trailing up your spine to cradle your head, his mouth moving with yours more feverishly as he gradually gave rein to the passion he’d kept under such tight control the first time he’d kissed you.

His tongue teased your lips apart, responded hungrily to your own caresses, making your breath grow short and your head swim with need until his large, strong hands shaped your sides, your hips, traced the curve of your bottom, and with a fluid motion he bent and scooped you into his arms, letting your legs twine around his waist while he supported you in an effortless hold.

You giggled breathlessly to look down at him for the first time, and a grin curved his lips before he turned his attention to your sensitive neck, kissing, grazing the tender skin with his teeth, dragging small moans from your throat as your fingers trailed through the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck to clutch his head to you.

He was sighing into your skin, dropping light kisses over your collarbone as though loath to tear his lips away from you, and his voice was nearly a whisper. 

“Will you stay?”

With a shy smile, you admitted, “I _was_ presumptuous enough to throw a toothbrush in my bag.”

The warm breath of his laugh raised goosebumps on your neck, and he found your lips again as he turned to carry you down the hallway to his bedroom. One arm held you securely beneath your back while he crawled onto a large bed to lay you gently on the fluffy duvet, and you drew him down into an embrace of tangled limbs.

The hazy glow of the city night that streamed in through the large, arched windows cast a play of light and shadow over Thranduil’s sculpted face, and his eyes glittered darkly in the dim room as he paused to stroke your hair away from your face, to look at you with a tenderness that brought a lump to your throat. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” 

“Yes,” you breathed, letting your fingers drift to the buttons that closed his shirt, knowing that you’d never been so sure of anything in your life. “Yes.”

* * *

**Eight months later**

You stood before the full-length mirror to survey your reflection with a critical eye, fussing with the narrow straps of your simple black evening gown and tucking a loose tendril of hair into place. Thranduil strolled into view behind you with a luminous smile, straightening his tie before slipping his arms around your waist to cuddle your back to his chest, the fabric of his crisp shirt and tuxedo jacket rustling against your skin. He bent to brush his lips over your bare shoulder, sending a pleasant, tingling shiver down your spine.

“You look beautiful. Not a soul will be looking at me.”

“Mmm, I can see it now: every journo on the red carpet saying, ‘Oi, star of the film, step aside so we can talk to your plus one,’” you teased, and he laughed appreciatively. “Do you like the dress?”

“It’s lovely,” he said, loosening his grasp to rest his hands on your waist with a mysterious gleam in his eye. “Just one final touch, I think…close your eyes.”

Despite a sidelong look at him, you complied, and felt something cool and metallic draped around your throat and his fingers deftly working at the nape of your neck before he murmured, close to your ear, “open.”

A gasp escaped your lips at the sight that met your eyes in the mirror. 

Your neck was adorned with a [strand of diamonds](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.harrywinston.com%2Fen%2Fwinston%25E2%2584%25A2-cluster-harry-winston-diamond-wreath-necklace&t=ZmZmOTk4ZmYzNjlkZDYxNGVjN2E4MGNhOGQxMzZmZjkwODRkYTMzZCxEMTMyMVRmSQ%3D%3D), round and marquis-cut stones alternating to give the effect of a wreath of delicate, glittering leaves and buds. The necklace caught the light, reflecting tiny glints around you, and your fingers gingerly reached to touch the sparkling gems.

“Oh,” you breathed. “It’s _beautiful_.”

Thranduil grinned, pleased. “Do you like it?”

“Who wouldn’t? It’s stunning.” You looked to his face in the mirror, only half-joking as you asked, “does it come with a security guard for the evening?”

“No,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s not a loan.”

You turned to face him with wide eyes, and he only smiled fondly.

“It’s yours.”

Your mouth opened and closed, soundless, before you blurted, “you can’t just buy something like this for me.”

“Already did,” he shrugged.

“But it’s too much!”

He took both of your hands in his with an earnest look. “I like to take care of you. Let me.”

“Thran, dinner and drinks is taking care of me. This is a diamond necklace that’s worth more than my car.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Let me thank you, then.”

“For what?”

“For sticking with me, even though our first date won you Internet notoriety,” he said ruefully, raising your hands to his lips to kiss them. “For loving me despite the baggage that comes along with me.”

You softened, gently disengaging your hands from his to rest them affectionately on his cheeks, standing on your toes to reach him for a chaste kiss. “You’re worth it,” you promised, “and always will be.”

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, too.”

“So you’ll keep the necklace?”

A begrudging smile tugged at your lips. “It’s completely impractical, and I have almost nothing to wear it with.”

“Then, by all means, wear it with nothing,” he grinned devilishly. “I’d like to see that.”

“Now you’ve given me an idea for an afterparty.”

A more heated kiss was interrupted by a knock at the door, and you parted from him guiltily, brushing his lapels smooth as a harried Jo walked briskly into the hotel room. 

“Ready to go?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you said gamely.

Thranduil smiled. “Our chariot awaits, my Queen.”

He offered you his hand, his grasp strong and sure, protective, and together you followed Jo through the hotel to the waiting car, ready to face the glare of flashbulbs that was, in the end, a small price to pay for love.


	3. A storm is just a storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue

“There’s a thunderstorm outside and you want to do what?” Thranduil looked up from the stack of scripts in his lap, clearly torn between amusement and incredulity.

“Ice cream,” you enthused, turning away from the French doors and their view of the angry twilight sky to flop onto the sofa beside him. “Doesn’t that sound delicious right now?”

“It might, if it weren’t pouring rain.”

“Oh, come on, live a little,” you said, a mischievous gleam coming into your eye as you snuggled up to him, trailing your fingers down the placket of his shirt. “I’m planning to make it worth your while.”

He raised an eyebrow, and a smirk tugged at his lips when you moved closer to take a playful nibble at his neck. “Are you trying to seduce me for ice cream?”

“Is it working?”

“Get your coat,” he grinned.

* * *

 

Thranduil shivered at the chill of your wet hair on his skin as you breathlessly dropped your head to rest on his chest. Wrapping you in his arms, he rolled to lay you on your side, facing him, and the contented smile that crept over his face was matched by your own.

“We’re soaked,” he said, grimacing at the dampness of the pillows and the hurriedly shed assortment of wet clothes that littered the bedroom floor.

Your smile widened. “Worth it.”

“Shame you didn’t enjoy your ice cream, though,” he frowned.

“It was all right,” you shrugged indifferently, “just not as good as usual. Must’ve been a bad batch.”

“Mmm,” he nodded thoughtfully before pressing a kiss to your lips. “How about a cup of tea to warm up?”

“Yes, please,” you smiled, watching him avidly as he rose from the bed and went to rummage in the dresser. Only when a sleek pair of tracksuit bottoms had obscured your view of his sculpted backside did you sit up and make an effort to pull yourself back together.

After retrieving panties from your drawer, your eye fell upon a jumper that Thranduil had draped over a chair in the sitting area the day before, and you picked it up, burying your nose in the cozy knit to inhale the scent of his cologne and that indescribable essence of his skin. With a satisfied smile, you pulled the jumper over your head, finding that it fell nearly to your knees, and went to join him in the kitchen.

Thranduil had just turned up the flame under the kettle, a grin playing about his lips as his eyes flickered appreciatively over you. He leaned against the counter, opening his arms in invitation, and you went to the haven of his embrace, circling your own arms around his waist while he kissed the crown of your head and murmured into your hair.

“My clothes look really good on you.”

“Well, you smell so good,” you smiled impishly, “I couldn’t resist.”

His purr in your ear was low, velvety. “Is it not enough to have the smell of me on your skin?”

“Naughty thing,” you giggled scoldingly, despite the flare of arousal in your blood at the sultry timbre of his voice.

You felt as much as heard his chuckle, and he fell silent, stroking his hand rhythmically up and down your spine. The kettle began to whisper the beginnings of a whistle, and when he stepped away from you to move it from the burner and turn off the stove, you took the opportunity to survey the contents of the refrigerator, opening a plastic container to pick at the leftover roast vegetables inside.

“So,” he said lightly, reaching down two cups from the cabinet, “when were you going to tell me that you’re pregnant?”

“Pregnant? News to me,” you scoffed, but your laughter faded when you found no hint of joking in his expression. “You can’t be serious, Thranduil.”

“Think about it,” he said, “you’ve been eating like every meal is your last, but your tastes have changed…the ice cream tonight, and don’t you remember last week when you were convinced those shrimp had gone off, but they were fine when I tried them?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t necessarily–”

“You come home in the evenings and barely take the time to get your coat off before ravishing me – not that I’m complaining, mind,” here your cheeks flamed at his wicked smirk, “and if I’m not mistaken, it’s been quite a while since I’ve found you curled up with the hot water bottle and a handful of Nurofen,” he finished gently. “It all adds up, darling.”

Your head swam as the possibility washed over you with shocking clarity, and Thranduil came to your side, pressing a cup of tea into your trembling hands.

“I am late,” you murmured. “I’ve been so busy at work, I didn’t realize how long it’s been, but now that I think about it…” You turned wide eyes on Thranduil, who was smiling sympathetically. “How are you so calm? I might be pregnant. With your child. Yours. Ours.”

“And if you are, I’m ready. Happy, even.”

“Truly?”

Thranduil nodded, reaching to stroke your hair away from your face. “I never thought I’d be in this position again…never thought I’d want to be,” he admitted. “But with you…I want all of it. I want to put together a cot, and feel the kicks at the sound of my voice, and fetch you ice cream in the middle of the night, and hold your hand when she’s born–”

“She?” you interjected.

“Or he,” he amended, his smile tinged with sheepishness. “I’ll be thrilled either way.”

All of your discussions about children and family had been mere pillow talk, the kind of idle fantasies that paint a vague, rosy picture of “someday,” but suddenly that picture swam into focus – Thranduil by your side, and a baby who was part of him and part of you and yet, miraculously, someone completely new in your arms – and the stirrings of some unnamed emotion made tears well in your eyes. You carefully set down your teacup on the counter and reached to lace your fingers with his.

“You make it sound wonderful,” you said, with a watery smile.

“It will be wonderful,” he promised, pressing your hand to his lips before leaning to your cheek to kiss a tear away.

“Well,” you laughed shakily, “before we start shopping for cots or picking out girls’ names, we have to know for sure…I’ll have to take a test.”

“Right,” Thranduil nodded briskly. He disappeared into the bedroom, returning clad in a dry shirt and shoes and pulling on his coat.

“What are you doing?” you frowned.

He smiled, and his fingertips tenderly lifted your chin for a kiss. “It would seem I’m going back out in a thunderstorm.”


End file.
